


All You Had to Do Was Ask

by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)



Series: Sterek New Year's Extravaganza [25]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asshole Scott, Derek Comes Back, Derek Leaves Beacon Hills, Getting Back Together, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Magic Stiles, Mates, Stubborn Derek, Stubborn Stiles, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-08 02:10:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13448319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wasterella/pseuds/isthatbloodonhisshirt
Summary: “I never should’ve left you. I’m sorry.”“You’re here now.” Stiles turned his face into Derek’s hand, closing his eyes. “That’s enough for me.”“I never stopped loving you, too,” Derek informed him, Stiles’ eyes opening so he could look up at him. “I never stopped thinking about you.”Stiles smiled slightly. “I’m pretty hard to forget.”(SNYE - January 25th - Getting Back Together)





	All You Had to Do Was Ask

**Author's Note:**

> Teen Wolf (c) Jeff Davis

Derek’s phone was ringing at two-thirty in the morning. His phone was ringing, and he wanted nothing more than to just ignore it and go back to sleep, pretending he hadn’t heard it. The only reason he didn’t was because it might be work, and while he didn’t necessarily _love_  his job at the pub, work was work and he would take all the hours and money he could get.

It helped that when he flirted with the ladies they tipped him extra. It was worth it sometimes, especially when particularly rich patrons came in.

Sighing almost explosively, he rolled over and felt around for his phone, sitting up when he failed. He grabbed it, unplugged it from the charger, and glanced at the number. It wasn’t programmed into his phone and had an area code he didn’t recognize, but he answered it anyway.

“Hello?”

There was silence for a long while, Derek frowning, but then he heard a soft exhale.

_“Derek. It’s you.”_

His head snapped back at the voice and he felt something in his chest clench at the sound of it. It had been almost two years since he’d heard it, and having it slicing through his brain now at two-thirty in the morning was making him feel things he’d promised himself were buried and locked away forever.

“Stiles,” he said quietly.

_“I’m glad you have the same number,”_ Stiles said, but Derek frowned when he realized he was slurring his words fairly heavily.

“Are you drunk?”

There was a mirthless laugh on the other end, followed by coughing and harsh wheezing. _“Yeah. Sure. I’m drunk.”_

Derek raked one hand through his hair and struggled to stop the feelings rising in his chest. He wanted to ask him a million questions, but didn’t even know where to start. It had been so long, and he’d worked _so_  hard to stop missing Stiles. It never worked, but he obsessed about him less than he used to.

Taking this call tonight was going to set him back to square one, and while he wanted to be annoyed about it, he also couldn’t find the energy to be because he had missed Stiles _so much_.

_“How are you?”_  Stiles asked, still slurring his words and speaking quietly. _“What have you been up to?”_

“Stiles, where are you?” Derek asked with a sigh. “I’ll call Scott to pick you up.”

Those words were followed by Stiles laughing, but it sounded dead, like he wished Derek’s words could be a threat but knew they weren’t.

_“I hope you’ve been doing well,”_ Stiles said, then coughed again. _“Hey Derek? I just needed you to know that I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t go with you when I had the chance. I’m sorry things ended up how they did. And I love you. I never stopped loving you. I’ll never **stop**  loving you.”_ Derek frowned at those words. Stiles wasn’t usually a sappy drunk, so this was new. _“I wish I could’ve seen you one last time. I hope you find happiness, wherever you are. I love you. Goodbye Derek.”_

The line went dead before Derek could even say anything. He pulled the phone away from his ear and went to the recent activity. He dialled the number back, but it went straight to voicemail, an automated voice informing him of the number he’d reached. Derek hunk up without leaving a message.

He found it weird for Stiles to call him out of the blue, completely drunk, two years since they’d last spoken.

He tossed his phone onto the nightstand and rolled over, closing his eyes in an attempt to sleep again. He didn’t _want_  to remember their last conversation, but it was hard to forget now that he was thinking about Stiles.

They’d been together for probably a year and a half before they’d broken up. Derek didn’t even know _how_  they got together, it was just one of those things where they’d been around each other all the time, Derek coming over to hang out in Stiles’ room while he researched or did homework. Stiles would drop by Derek’s place and they would watch movies or order pizza. Sometimes they would sleep over at each other’s places, and one day before leaving, Stiles had leaned over and kissed Derek before saying goodbye and walking out.

He could tell based on the way Stiles had raced back upstairs after having actually _left_  the building that he hadn’t meant to do that, and it had just been automatic. Natural, even. As Stiles had stumbled over apologies, Derek had kissed him. He’d just wanted to see if this was something he wanted, and after a heavy makeout session against Derek’s loft door, they both realized that, unconsciously, they’d started falling for each other and had inadvertently been dating for a number of weeks without even realizing it.

Things with Stiles were just always so _easy_. He was the only person Derek felt like he could be himself around. And he was the only person Derek had felt this connected to since his family had died. Stiles was _more_  than just his boyfriend, and someone in his Pack. Stiles was Derek’s _everything_. He hadn’t realized how different things could be when he was with someone and truly _loved_  them, mostly because he felt like he’d never truly understood what love _was_  before Stiles.

They’d been together for a year and a half, and then everything had gone to shit. A new big bad had been lured to Beacon Hills, thanks to the Nemeton, and Stiles had almost died. Derek had almost died, too. It hadn’t been a good fight for the Pack, and they’d experienced two casualties: Liam and Parrish. Nobody had taken that very well.

But Derek couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d almost lost Stiles. How the one last _truly good_ thing in his life had almost been taken from him forever. And that had terrified him.

So the following night, he’d gone to see Stiles and had told him he wanted to leave Beacon Hills. He wanted to get out, just _get out_ , and leave the Nemeton and all the shit that came with it behind him. He wanted to leave, and he wanted Stiles to go with him.

He’d refused. Stiles had his father to consider, as well as Scott, Lydia and Malia. People who _mattered_  to him, who he cared about. He couldn’t leave them, and he’d instead asked Derek to stay. To just stay and they could figure things out.

They’d fought, not an uncommon occurrence for them, and Derek had ended the conversation by telling Stiles he was leaving at eight the following morning, with or without him. Then he’d left Stiles’ house and hadn’t once looked back.

The following morning, he’d stayed sitting in the Camaro with his items packed until almost eleven. He’d waited and waited, hoping Stiles would show up, but he never did. He’d decided to stay in Beacon Hills, and while Derek was angry and had sped out of town as fast as his car could take him, he eventually calmed down a few hours later.

It had been unfair of him to ask, and he knew it. Asking Stiles to choose between him and his father would’ve been the same as asking Derek to choose between Stiles and his family. Stiles had probably been angry at the ultimatum, and he likely had been hoping for Derek to stay.

Derek regretted leaving the moment he stopped at a hotel that same night, but it was too late, now. Stiles would’ve gone over and seen he’d left by now, and Derek was too stubborn to admit he’d been wrong. So he just lay in the hotel bed and kicked himself for making such a stupid mistake, and had rolled over to go to sleep.

He’d woken the next morning to a text from Stiles. All it had said was,

**[Stiles]**  
i guess this is it then. take care of yourself sourwolf.

Derek had been furious for days after that text, and had never replied. He was pissed Stiles hadn’t shown even a hint of sadness at his departure. Hadn’t shown that he cared about losing him _at all_. Of course now, Derek knew better, and recognized that it was just Stiles trying to push back the hurt he was feeling and just let Derek know he wanted whatever he thought was best for himself, but at the time he’d been pissed.

They’d essentially broken up because Derek had walked away from him, and there hadn’t been a day since then where he hadn’t deeply regretted it.

It had taken time for him to forget how much it hurt losing Stiles, but eventually, the pain had lessened. He still thought about him almost all the time, even now, and he masturbated thinking about him. He even moaned Stiles’ name whenever he had one-night stands, and didn’t concern himself at all with how offended it made his bed partners.

Nobody had ever been as good for him as Stiles was, and he knew their breakup had been his fault. And now, here he was, two years after having left Beacon Hills, lying in bed, with Stiles’ words echoing in his head.

Stiles had said he loved him. That he always had and always would. It physically hurt Derek to realize that, after all this time, he could’ve just gone home if he hadn’t been so stubborn. Where was the harm in saying ‘I was wrong’? Why couldn’t he have just admitted he never should’ve left?

It had been so long, by now. Derek was renting an apartment in New Jersey, working as a bartender at a rundown pub a few blocks away. He knew his neighbours, and he’d spoken to the local Alpha and been allowed to stay so long as he didn’t cause problems.

But he was lonely. He missed his Pack. He missed his loft, and his town.

He missed Stiles. _God_  did he ever miss Stiles.

Rolling back over angrily, annoyed that Stiles had called him drunk and made him feel these things again _just_  when he thought he might be able to get over him—who was he kidding, he’d never be over Stiles—Derek grabbed his phone and sat up.

He’d never changed his number, though he didn’t know why. It still had the same California area code, and cost him a small fortune whenever he made any calls since it was technically long distance, but a part of him felt like he’d kept it because he’d always wanted Stiles to call him. He’d always wanted Stiles to call and ask to go to him, or beg Derek to come back.

And he would have. That was the really depressing thing. If Stiles had asked, he _would_  have.

Finding a number in his contacts, Derek called it and put the phone to his ear, listening to it ring. It rang through to voicemail, but he didn’t hang up, and just waited for the message to end so he could speak.

_“Hi, you’ve reached Scott McCall. I can’t come to the phone right now, but please leave your name and number and I’ll give you a call back. Thanks!”_

When the line beeped, Derek spoke.

“Scott, it’s me.” He paused, realizing that after two years, Scott might not recognize his voice. “Derek. Look, I know it’s been a long time, but I’m just calling because I’m worried about Stiles. He called me a while ago and he sounded pretty drunk. I don’t know if you guys are still friends, or if you’re still around the same areas, but maybe call someone else who can help him if you can’t? He just—he sounded bad. I don’t want him to get hurt.” He paused again, not sure how to sign off, then settled for, “I hope you’re doing well. No need to call back. Take care of yourself.”

He hung up, then tossed his phone aside. He rolled over to go to sleep, knowing he probably wouldn’t manage it, and finally passed back out after four in the morning.

* * *

For the second time in the same day, Derek woke up because his phone was ringing. He was starting to hate the damn thing and hoped it wasn’t Stiles calling back because it would hurt way too fucking much to talk to him again.

He reached for the phone blindly, finding it easily this time and pulled it closer. It was just before seven now, and the name flashing back at him was Scott. He was pissed, because he’d told him not to call back, but he answered anyway.

“I said you didn’t need to call—”

_“Derek! You spoke to Stiles? When did you talk to him? How long ago? What number did he have?”_

The urgency in Scott’s voice woke Derek right up and he sat up with a frown, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

_“Derek, I **need**  this information! Please, how long ago?”_

“I don’t know, sometime after two? Let me check my call log.” He pulled the phone away and put it on speaker so he could talk to Scott while looking for the call he’d received. He could hear Scott breathing hard on the other end and wondered what was going on.

When he found the call log, he informed Scott it had been at two thirty-three in the morning, and the number he’d received the call from was a nine-seven-zero area code. Scott said something to someone else, which startlingly sounded like Isaac, and they confirmed it was a Colorado area code.

_“Thanks Derek.”_

Scott hung up. Derek stared down at his phone, confused and slightly annoyed. He knew he’d left the Pack by leaving Beacon Hills, but that had been a weird _and_  rude phonecall, which was odd, because Scott wasn’t usually like that.

Despite his better judgement, Derek called back, listening to it ring and ring. He thought at first it might go to voicemail, but finally, Scott answered again.

_“Did he call back?”_

“What is going on?” Derek demanded with a frown.

_“Like you care,”_  Scott bit out. _“I don’t have time for you.”_

“Scott, _what_  is going _on_?” Derek demanded more insistently. “Don’t hang up on me, or I won’t tell you if he calls back again!”

There was a brief silence on the other end, then he heard Isaac—it was _definitely_  Isaac, holy shit!—quietly tell Scott to just let Derek know what was going on.

_“He’s not Pack anymore,”_ Scott snapped back.

_“Maybe not, but if Stiles called him, don’t you think we need all the help we can get? He’d never have done that if he didn’t think he was running out of time.”_

“Why is Stiles running out of time?” Derek demanded, feeling a fear he hadn’t felt in a long time beginning to rise in his chest, suffocating him. “Scott, where is Stiles?!”

Scott was quiet for a moment, and Derek heard the roar of an engine. They were obviously in some kind of vehicle. From the sounds around them, it was likely they were on some kind of highway.

_“Stiles was taken by some Hunters,”_ Scott finally admitted. _“Chris knows them from before. They do this a lot. They take people like Stiles and use him as a kind of battery to find other Supernatural creatures.”_

“A battery?” Derek frowned. “Why would they be using Stiles as a battery?”

_“A lot’s changed since you left,”_  Scott said coldly. _“Stiles is a rare type of Supernatural called a Spark. He’s magic, essentially. The purest form. The Hunters find and kidnap Sparks, and plug them into this machine they have that helps track down Supernaturals. They’re using him to hunt and kill things, but the problem is...”_  Scott trailed off, but after a moment, Isaac spoke, voice soft.

_“Batteries run out.”_

Derek felt like he couldn’t breathe, hand tightening around his phone. “How long has Stiles been missing?”

_“Just over two weeks,”_ Scott replied. _“We’re not sure how, but he manages to get to a phone every few days. We’ve been tracking him based on the clues he’s left behind, but the Hunters keep moving him around. It’s hard to pinpoint him.”_

_“He used to call the police, but they never got to him in time, so he started calling us,”_ Isaac piped in. _“We haven’t heard from him in three days. We were starting to think...”_ he trailed off and they were both silent for a moment.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Derek asked. “I could’ve helped.”

_“Why would we call someone who abandoned us?”_  Scott asked coldly. _“We’re doing fine on our own, we don’t need you.”_

Derek scowled and climbed out of bed, hurrying to his dresser and yanking it open. “Where are you? I’ll come meet you.”

_“Meet us?”_  Scott scoffed. _“And what do you think **you’re**  going to do?”_

“I’m gonna save him,” Derek said, yanking on some jeans and grabbing a random shirt, sitting on his bed to pull on his socks, phone cradled between his ear and his shoulder.

_“You’re gonna save him? You? You wouldn’t even **stay**  for him, and now you’re gonna save him?”_

“I didn’t want to leave him,” Derek snapped, eyebrows turned down angrily. “I wanted him to come with me. When he didn’t, I _wanted_  to stay, but I didn’t know how. If he’d asked me to come back, I would’ve.”

_“He shouldn’t have **had**  to ask you to come back!”_ Scott shouted. _“You just **should**  have! You leaving **destroyed**  him, Derek! Here was another person in his life that he loved who he had lost! His mother, Lydia, **you**.”_

Derek felt his blood run cold. “What happened to Lydia?”

_“She’s in a coma,”_  Isaac’s voice said, louder than before. He’d likely taken the phone away from Scott, because Derek could hear him breathing angrily on the other end. _“Demon possession. It didn’t end well. She’s been in a coma for just over a year.”_

_“Everything that happened these past two years is **your** fault! Stiles shouldn’t **ever** have become a Spark, but he worked at it over and over again because he wanted to help us. Because our Pack is dwindling down to **nothing**. Because **you** left us. This is on **you** , Derek! If Stiles dies, **it’s your fault**!”_

Scott hung up.

Derek sat on his bed, phone still in his hand, and felt like he was going to be sick. He had left Beacon Hills without once looking back, and now he knew that he should’ve swallowed his pride and returned and admitted that he had been _wrong_. He should’ve turned around the second he’d stopped at the hotel and realized he shouldn’t have left. He should’ve turned around the second Stiles had texted him.

Fuck, Derek shouldn’t even have left when Stiles hadn’t shown up. He should’ve realized that he just wanted to run away because he was hurting over Liam and Parrish’s deaths. He should’ve known that seeing Stiles almost die had almost _killed_  him, and that instead of running, he should’ve held him closer.

Now Stiles was missing, and possibly going to die, and Derek didn’t even know what he should be doing. He literally had no _fucking_  idea where to start.

Staring down at his phone, he frowned, trying to think. Colorado was the area code Stiles had called from, and that was likely where Scott and Isaac were headed. Of course it was a big state, but it was a start.

“Colorado it is.” Derek stood and started rooting around his desk for his passport. “You’ve been too stubborn to die before, Stiles,” he muttered to himself, pulling the item out. “Just hang on a bit longer. I’m coming.”

* * *

The flight from his new home to Hayden, Colorado took Derek just over six hours. He didn’t know what he was hoping to find, but Hayden was the only location with an airport that he’d easily found in the nine-seven-zero area code so he’d gotten on the first plane and headed out.

Once he was actually _there_ , though, he didn’t know what to do. He just stood outside the airport staring at all the people milling about, trying to figure out his next course of action. He had no idea where he should even be going or what he should be doing, and he was just about to head back into the airport to rent a car when someone caught his eye.

A man was walking towards him, smiling kindly and waving. Derek watched him approach apprehensively, but Alan Deaton just stopped in front of him and smiled.

“Derek. It’s been a while.”

“How did you know I’d be here?” Derek asked, not unkindly.

“Scott called and said you were now informed of Stiles’ disappearance. I knew it was only a matter of time before you found your way here. I took a chance on which airport you would arrive at, and it seems I was right.” He motioned over his shoulder. “If you would come with me, I’d like to speak to you for a moment.”

Derek wasn’t sure he trusted Deaton, but he followed anyway, the two of them heading for the parking lot. Deaton climbed into a new Honda Civic that Derek assumed was a rental and he climbed in beside him, tossing his duffel into the back seat. Deaton started the car and began driving without a word.

Truth be told, Derek was more than happy to keep the ride silent between them, but so much had happened since he’d left that he felt compelled to ask what he’d missed in Beacon Hills.

Deaton gave him to run-down in the most detached voice Derek had ever heard. The sheriff had retired after his third stroke, most people amazed he’d survived them all. He was paralysed on one half of his face, but otherwise in good spirits. Lydia, as he knew, was in a coma, but she seemed to be doing better than she had been previously. They were optimistic she would wake up soon. Isaac had returned a month after Derek had left, and was living with Chris Argent. He was still damaged from everything that had happened, but was taking the days one at a time.

Stiles was a Spark, as Derek already knew. He’s been in training to be Scott’s new Emissary since Deaton would need a successor eventually. He was also blind in his left eye from a Werewolf attack a year ago, with scars down his face from where it had gotten him.

The more Deaton spoke, the sicker Derek felt and he was honestly amazed he hadn’t thrown up at some point during the drive. All he kept wondering was, “Is this me? Was this my fault?”

He knew that he couldn’t stop _everything_ , and that even if he’d been there, it was still possible _some_  of these events would’ve transpired, but he couldn’t help but wonder if Stiles would still be able to see out of both eyes. If Lydia would be awake and well. If maybe his presence would’ve meant Stiles could be home more to watch out for his dad and maybe it would’ve stopped him from having the three strokes he’d had.

Was all of this Derek’s fault? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know, because the guilt was already eating away at him. So he just stared out the window, listening to Deaton list off the various things that had happened over the past two years, and said nothing.

They pulled into a motel, the outside looking like it had seen better days. When they entered one of the rooms, Deaton already having a key, the inside didn’t look much better. Derek said nothing and just sat on one of the twin bed when Deaton motioned for him to, and watched the Druid go to his bag in the corner and root through it. He pulled out various vials of things Derek didn’t recognize, and then wandered back over to Derek.

“We might have a chance of finding Stiles,” Deaton said, Derek straightening instantly. “I didn’t want to mention this before now to anyone because it’s all very dependent on your relationship with Stiles, and until today, I assumed I’d been wrong. But Stiles called you, and now you’re here, so there’s still hope.”

“Hope for what?” Derek asked, but Deaton didn’t respond. He just grabbed Derek’s hand and made him hold it out, palm up. He poured some weird black goo out of one vial into his palm, and then some clear crystals out of another. The last vial had some strands of hair and Derek arched an eyebrow when Deaton emptied that one out into Derek’s palm.

It was clear he hadn’t been expecting an immediate reaction, because he jerked back when the three items in Derek’s hand immediately glowed bright red before catching on fire. Derek shook his hand out urgently, then patted it down against the comforter. It left behind a scorch mark, but his hand looked to be fine. It hadn’t even burned him in the slightest.

“Excellent. This may work, but we have to move quickly. There’s a limit to your range.”

“What was that?” Derek demanded, watching Deaton hurry back to his bag and pull out larger jars of items. “What limit to what range? What are you talking about?”

Deaton was starting to set things down on the floor in front of the bed Derek was sitting on, but he kept going back to his bag to grab more items.

“I began suspecting it when the two of you first got together. It was a connection the likes of which I had never seen before. Something strong and unbreakable.” He grabbed one last item and then hurried back to the pile in front of Derek, opening various items and beginning to create symbols on the carpeted floor with all kinds of different concoctions in his jars. “After you left, I suspected I was wrong in what I saw, and that perhaps it was just a hope I’d had. For you to find true happiness after everything you’d lost. But when Stiles called you, and you demanded to know what was going on, I started to hope that perhaps I wasn’t wrong. Perhaps you and Stiles are just too stubborn for your own goods.” Deaton glanced up at him. “You know Stiles has never been with anyone since you. Won’t even entertain the idea. Curious, don’t you think, for someone you abandoned to hang onto you so tightly.”

Derek’s chest ached at the words, and he would’ve felt guilty for the sex he’d had with others if not for the fact that he literally always thought of Stiles whenever he was fucking them. One night stands with Stiles’ name on his lips, always.

“What are you getting at?” Derek asked. “I don’t have the patience for your cryptic comments.”

Deaton continued to work, eyes focussed on what he was doing, but he said, “How much has your mother told you about mates, Derek?”

He stiffened at the word, heart pounding in his chest. Why would Deaton ask him that? What was he implying?!

“They’re rare,” he said quietly. “And breaking the bond for any reason other than one party passing away is enough to kill both sides, if the bond is strong enough.”

Deaton looked up. “You and Stiles have the strongest bond I have ever encountered. The fact that both of you survived your separation for two years is nothing short of a miracle. My only assumption is that you both were still so focussed on one another that instead of the bond feeling the strain in your relationship, it somehow remained stable. And now,” Deaton lit a blowtorch, Derek giving him a concerned look, “we are going to use your bond with Stiles to locate him before he’s drained entirely of magic.”

“And we’re doing this with a blowtorch?” Derek asked uncertainly.

“Pain will help you focus.” Deaton motioned the middle of the circle he’d been working on. “Sit, please.”

Derek was—understandably, he thought—apprehensive. But this was for Stiles. This was to _save_  Stiles. So he slid off the bed and sat in the middle of the circle, legs folded together and hands on either knee. Deaton shifted out of the circle and motioned each arm with the blowtorch.

“Right or left?”

Derek thought about it, then pulled off his shirt and motioned his left arm. Deaton nodded and went to sit on his left side, Derek sticking the edge of his shirt into his mouth, biting down hard on it.

“Focus on Stiles. On your connection to him. Once you find him, you will have to work to see what he saw before he ended up where he is. Even just five minutes could be instrumental in finding him.”

Derek still didn’t get why Deaton needed to torch his arm for this, but he nodded and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He focussed on Stiles, the sound of his voice, the way he laughed, the feel of his skin under his hands. He screamed into the shirt when he felt the blowtorch burning into his arm, but he just stayed focussed on Stiles, struggling to ignore the pain, eyes clenched shut tightly.

When the pain was gone, his eyes snapped open, but he wasn’t in the hotel room anymore. He was somewhere else entirely. It was dark, and dank, and he heard screaming, but it sounded like it was coming from underwater or very far away. Like he had a TV connection that wasn’t quite right, and he could only hear a portion of the sound he was meant to be hearing.

He turned to try and find the source of the noise and his stomach bottomed out. Stiles was strapped to a metal examination table, ankles and wrists bound tightly with what looked like the same kinds of bindings people used in hospitals and mental institutes. His back was arched off the table, eyes clenched shut, and he was screaming. There were weird symbols painted on his skin in what looked like either blood or a clay-based paint, it was hard to tell, and wires connected him to a machine beside him. Derek could see the ends of the wires were imbedded in Stiles’ skin with sharp metal ends, blood having pooled around the injuries but dried in the time he’d been left like this.

Two men were standing at the machine, one of them typing away at something on one side where a keyboard and screen were located, and the other staring down at Stiles, looking bored, with one hand on a dial. The man at the keyboard spoke, but the connection wasn’t strong enough for Derek to hear what he said. The other man turned the dial and Stiles’ screaming intensified, his entire back arched off the table, arms tugging hard at the restraints. Derek felt himself wolfing out, wanting to attack these people, but he found he couldn’t even move from where he was standing. It was like he was stuck and could only spin around in a circle.

He let out a shout of pain when he felt his arm burning again, and Deaton’s voice floated through his mind.

_“Focus, Derek. Where is he?”_

Where was he? Derek looked around, but they were in what he thought might be some kind of cellar. It was extremely dark, though that might’ve been the connection, and he didn’t recognize anything. He stared at Stiles, his chest clenching, his heart hurting, and wished he could help him. Was this happening to him right now? Were they pulling the life right out of him with this machine?

Derek clenched his hands angrily, claws digging into his palms, and tried to concentrate.

“Show me how you got here, Stiles.”

The second he spoke, Stiles’ head snapped in his direction and his eyes opened. Derek jerked back, startled, when he found them completely white and sparking, like he was made up of electricity.

“Derek,” he breathed.

It felt like he was falling, but he was suddenly watching everything happen in reverse and at three times its usual speed. The men were lowering the power, they unstrapped Stiles’ weakly struggling form from the table, they dragged him across the room and then threw him in a cage. They locked the door and walked backwards out of the room. There was a bright light, Derek shielding his face, and he saw the men hop down from where they’d been standing before shutting a set of large double doors with a loud bang.

He didn’t understand, at first, what he had just seen, but then he was suddenly outside. It was night time, and dark, and when he turned to see where he was, he recognized Beacon Hills. Stiles was kicking and screaming, being dragged forward by a group of four men. His arms were bound behind his back, there was something stuffed in his mouth, and his gaze was furious. Derek felt sick at the sight of the three scratches across his face, left eye white and unseeing, but he ignored how much it hurt to realize he might’ve been able to stop that and just focussed.

When Stiles was pulled past him, Derek turned and started at the sight that greeted him.

“Holy shit!”

The connection was cut like a guitar chord wound too tightly and Derek’s eyes snapped open. He inhaled deeply, the smell of burning flesh strong in the room, and then leaned over to cough and gag. He could still hear Stiles screaming in his head, but that wasn’t what he was trying to focus on.

“Pen. Pen now,” he ordered, holding his hand out.

Deaton instead placed a random jar in it and Derek hastily dipped his right index into it and wrote out a series of letters and numbers on his arm. The Druid moved around him to see what he was doing, frowning.

“What is that?”

“A license plate number,” Derek managed to get out. He looked up at Deaton, face contorted with rage. “They have him in a fucking semi.”

* * *

Scott seemed more amenable to having Derek along when it became clear he was the only reason they had any idea where Stiles was. Deaton and Derek were driving to meet him and Isaac while the sheriff called in to every police station in Colorado, trying to have the semi truck located.

It explained why Stiles was so hard to pin down, and why the area code changed every time he called someone. The Hunters who had him were obviously changing their sim cards out every time they moved location, but having him in the back of a trailer meant that they could easily move him around without suspicion. And if the trailer was moving while they sucked the life out of him to power their machine, it also explained why nobody had heard anything. Semis were pretty loud.

By the time Derek had met up with Scott, he was still pissed and refused to look at him, or acknowledge his presence overall, really, but Isaac hugged him and said he was glad to see him. They stood trying to figure out their next move and make plans, but before they could find a concrete one, Scott’s phone rang.

Chris Argent was calling to say the Hunters had been found, and the police had the semi. The sheriff was already on his way to the airport, and Stiles was being taken to the hospital.

Chris barely had time to finish saying which one before Derek was in Deaton’s car and driving off without him. He knew Scott would follow, but he didn’t care if he’d be pissed about being left behind. All Derek could think about was Stiles and whether or not he was all right.

He had to pull up Google Maps on his phone to make his way to the hospital, and when he reached it, he parked very badly in a free spot and bolted for the entrance. When he reached the nurse’s station, she informed him only immediate family could see Stiles—though she called him Mieczyslaw—and Derek instantly blurted out,

“I’m his fiancé!”

The nurse didn’t seem to believe him, likely because he wasn’t wearing a ring since her eyes had lowered to look at his hand, but he must’ve looked as desperate as he felt because she led him to another room and told him to wait until he was called since Stiles was still being treated. He was there for close to half an hour before a man came to fetch him to bring him to Stiles’ room.

The nurse leading him asked when they could expect Stiles’ family to show up, and Derek told him that his dad was flying out right now. The nurse nodded, as if satisfied with the answer, and Derek walked into the room behind him.

The man was still speaking to him, but Derek barely heard a word he said. Stiles was unconscious and connected to various different machines. One Derek knew was a heart rate monitor, but he also had an IV Lead and three other things he didn’t recognize connected to him. He looked extremely thin, was more than likely dehydrated, and his face was gaunt. It made Derek’s heart clench in his chest and he moved up beside the bed, hesitantly reaching out to brush his fingers against the back of Stiles’ hand.

The other didn’t move, and Derek swallowed hard, sitting slowly in the chair and taking his hand more securely, wrapping both of his own around one of Stiles’.

The nurse said something to him again, but Derek still couldn’t hear him. The door shut and he was alone, staring at Stiles, feeling sick. He looked exactly the same except not at all. Derek reached up without meaning to with one hand, other still holding Stiles’ tightly, and ran one finger gently along one of the scratch marks on his face. They went from his left temple down to the right side of his jaw, three perfectly parallel lines.

“I’m sorry,” Derek whispered, feeling his throat tight and his eyes stinging. “Stiles, I’m sorry.”

The other said nothing, eyes closed, continuing to sleep. Derek hoped he was having pleasant dreams, but given their lives, he doubted it. So he just held onto his hand with both of his and tried to pull at his pain as much as possible.

People came in every now and then, and Derek could hear Scott kicking up a fuss out in the waiting room for not being allowed in, but otherwise everything was quiet. Four hours after Derek had arrived, the door opened again and he was punched across the face, falling out of the chair.

He stared up at the sheriff, the man looking like he’d aged much more than just the two years since he’d seen him. Derek opened his mouth to say something, but nothing felt right. So he just stayed on the ground, staring up at him, feeling guilt eating away at his chest.

When the sheriff went for him again, Derek waited, knowing he’d deserve whatever was coming, but the man just pulled him forcibly to his feet and crushed him in an impressively tight hug for a human. Derek hugged him back awkwardly, the sheriff crying into his shoulder, and turned to look at Stiles.

It took a long time for the sheriff to calm down, and he took the seat Derek had previously been sitting in. It was hard to look at him, one half of his face drooping and devoid of emotion while the other was etched with pain and anger and relief all at once.

Derek went to find them some coffee, more so he could escape the suffocating scents in the room, and ended up making his way to where Scott was. Predictably, he was furious, and also punched him in the face, but this one hurt less than the sheriff’s.

Power-wise, being a Werewolf, of course Scott’s hurt more physically than the sheriff’s had, but emotionally, Scott’s was like a tiny blip compared to the large-scale, overwhelming explosion that was the sheriff’s.

He let Scott freak out at him for a while, Isaac struggling to calm him down, and then went to find coffee when he was finally free to do so. He returned to the room to find the sheriff crying again, holding the same hand Derek had been earlier.

He handed over the coffee, and went to sit in the other chair across the bed. Neither of them spoke while they waited, Derek occasionally reaching out to pull at Stiles’ pain. He didn’t know if it was helping at all, but he wanted to think he was at least alleviating some of the pain he could still feel while unconscious.

The sheriff fell asleep a few hours later, still holding Stiles’ right hand. Derek threaded his fingers between Stiles’ on his left when the man was finally unconscious and just waited for him to wake up, praying he actually _would_.

Derek himself was beginning to nod off when he heard Stiles’ heartrate increase slightly, both in his chest _and_  on the monitor. When he forced himself awake again, he stared at Stiles’ face and after a moment, he let out a slow breath, lips parting, and his eyes fluttered open. He blinked a few times, Derek’s chest tight at the sight of his blind eye, and then turned to look at his dad. When he tried to pull his left hand free, presumably to reach for the sheriff, he seemed to realize someone else was there and turned his head. He had to turn it more than usual so he could see out of his right eye and he froze at the sight of who was sitting beside him.

Derek opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. He didn’t know what to say to him right now, and realizing that Stiles was his actual _mate_  and he’d _abandoned_  him because of pride, and the fact that he’d almost fucking _died_...

“I should’ve gone with you,” Stiles said before Derek could apologize. His voice was rough and scratchy, probably from screaming, and it made Derek’s gorge rise.

“I never should’ve left,” he managed to get out. “I didn’t even want to when you didn’t show up, but I was stubborn, so I did.”

“I wanted to beg you to come home,” Stiles whispered, the words impossible to hear without enhanced hearing. “But I was stubborn, too.”

Derek reached out with his free hand, rubbing his palm along Stiles’ cheek and leaning forward.

“I never should’ve left you. I’m sorry.”

“You’re here now.” Stiles turned his face into Derek’s hand, closing his eyes. “That’s enough for me.”

“I never stopped loving you, too,” Derek informed him, Stiles’ eyes opening so he could look up at him. “I never stopped thinking about you.”

Stiles smiled slightly. “I’m pretty hard to forget.”

Derek had to fight hard to roll his eyes, because it was hard looking away from Stiles, but he knew that familiarity was what they needed.

They were silent for a moment, Derek’s thumb brushing lightly against Stiles’ cheek and Stiles memorizing every line of Derek’s face.

“Derek,” he said quietly. “Please come home.”

Feeling the tightness in his chest loosen for the first time in years, Derek leaned forward to press his lips to Stiles’ forehead, then pressed his own forehead against it.

“All you had to do was ask.”

He was never leaving his side again. This was where he belonged, and he would stay with Stiles to the bitter end.

No matter what.

**END.**


End file.
